


The Christmas I Decided Not To Kill Everyone

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Special, Fix-It, Gen, Hate to Love (your enemy's family), Henry immediately has a crush on the creature because of course he would, Jealous Victor, POV First Person, Revenge, SORT OF creature/Henry, accidentally invited to dinner, stealing your enemy's bff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21903103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: The creature descends from the mountains, driven by hatred for his creator. He would confront him—to demand a companion, or to demand revenge? But instead of coming across young William Frankenstein and committing his first of many murders, the creature arrives in the middle of winter. He knocks on the door to discover Christmas celebrations in progress…
Relationships: Frankenstein's Creature/Henry Clerval
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	The Christmas I Decided Not To Kill Everyone

I descended from the mountains, driven by hatred for my creator. I would confront him—to demand a companion, or to demand revenge? I could not say which.

After months of travel, I reached the environs of Geneva. Coming upon a meadow called Plainpalais, oppressed by fatigue and hunger, I stopped to rest. The place would have been a lush paradise in the summer months, where children played in the sun, but their laughing footfalls were now a distant memory blanketed by snow.

I slept uninterrupted, if fitfully, for a few hours, in a dug shelter. The cold wind did not disturb my hardy frame, but within my soul raged the debate of how best to approach my maker. The benevolent part that remained still dared hope this man might help me—might take pity upon me, and relieve my desolation. Yet the rest, ravaged by man’s cruelty, wished to return misery to its source.

The thought of his suffering at my hand thrilled me with fiendish delight. Yes. My creator would know the loneliness I felt. I would show him that I too can create desolation, and he would despair of the same hopeless which he had wrought upon me.

I would kill everyone Victor Frankenstein ever loved.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the distance, smoke from a chimney billowed through the sky. I followed it to the Frankenstein estate, the home of my enemy, and knocked on the door.

It sprang open, releasing a warm glow and festive smells of food and candy. “Henry!” greeted a sallow youth with a wide smile—which instantly faded into a yelp of horror as his eyes focused upon me. “It can’t be.” He staggered back from the doorway, clutching his chest.

“What’s the matter, son?” called a calm, genial voice. A grey-haired man appeared by Victor’s side at the door, and squinted up at me with kind eyes, which were clearly hard of sight. He could only make out enough of my towering stature and ragged clothes to presume me a beggar, but not enough to be frightened. “Oh, you poor fellow,” he addressed me compassionately. “Please forgive my Victor’s manners; he has been ill. You have come seeking alms, yes? My wife was always so generous to those less fortunate than we, and it is my pride and honor to carry on in her name.”

“You misunderstand,” I replied, making no effort to disguise the harshness of my voice. “I am not here for your charity. I am here for Victor Frankenstein. I am his—”

“—ROOMMATE!” Victor suddenly burst forth, cutting off my introduction. He laughed nervously, eyes wild, while forcing himself to pat my arm in a casual, jovial gesture of friendship. I could see the skin on the back of his hand crawl as he made contact. “It’s a pleasure to see you, old chap,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t realize you _had_ a roommate,” puzzled the elder. Victor stiffened.

“S-surely I wrote to you of him? This is…” He let the last syllable trail, hoping that I would fill it in. The fool never named me and now expected me to cover for him. “Clo… Claus! This is my roommate from Ingolstadt, Claus Wollstone.”

How quickly it happened! Did I have a name? _Claus._ He was looking at my _cloak_ as he sounded it out. My wool cloak. I could have torn the arrogant bastard to pieces then and there, but his father extended to me his wrinkled hand.

“Alphonse Frankenstein, a pleasure to meet you, Claus.”

I took it, completely enveloping the older gentleman’s hand in my own, and shook it gingerly, frightened that he might break if I were not exceedingly gentle. None had ever offered me his hand before. However much I longed to inflict injury upon his son, I had no desire to harm one who had shown me only kindness. How did Victor ever come from such a lovely progenitor?

“Since you are a friend of the family, I insist you join us for dinner. It is Christmas Eve, after all.”

I stammered, hesitating. After a lifetime of eliciting only terror and revulsion in my fellow-beings, I never expected my first offer of hospitality from the home of my enemy. I ought to have refused before the better-sighted family members saw me and screamed, yet the savory aromas of rosemary, sage, and ham baking in the oven were wafting out the door in a radiant warmth, tempting me inside out of the frigid winter air. A pleasant fire crackled in the hearth, and a tree lit up with candles served as an intriguing centerpiece to the main room.

Then there was Victor, eyes frozen wide with absolute dread. His head twitched side to side, desperately trying to signal “no” to me without anyone else noticing.

“Yes, I would love to stay,” I grinned until my cheeks burned with hateful delight, “…and tell you all about Victor’s time at university.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was clear that Victor has never told anyone about his abominable experiments—robbing graves, torturing helpless animals, and ultimately creating a humanoid being whom he abandoned to the wild without a scrap of parenting to guide him along—and such a revelation would be an absolute and utter humiliation. Thus I could keep Victor in a constant state of mortification by the mere mention of “his laboratory,” or “where he obtained materials,” slipped casually into conversation.

I delighted in watching the young scientist’s heart stop each time I seemed about to give up the game and reveal all, and then watching him frantically scramble to invent a satisfactory lie.

“Grave robber?” Victor laughed too loudly, “He is teasing! ’Tis a joke, a nickname, at the expense of those unfortunate English who have been forced to rely upon resurrectionists to obtain their cadavers for study. Of course, our fine schools in Germany benefit from more enlightened attitudes, and need not resort to unsavory means, as my _dear friend_ knows!”

He slapped my shoulder playfully, turning another shade paler—a feat I would have imagined impossible. He had already been a sickly grey when he answered the door. My creator was not a robust man, with frail constitution the opposite pair to my own, and it drained all his little endurance to exist in my presence without voiding his stomach. Yet there was one thing he feared more than I, and that was his family discovering what he had done.

I had intended to make his life miserable by murdering his family and friends, but upon meeting them, I could see that tactic was too extreme. This form of torture was _much more fun_. Besides, the Frankenstein family was delightful, save the black sheep who wrought me.

The father was intelligent and honorable, conversing with me without any regard for my wretched appearance (which he may have been too blind to see). The child, William, was too young to take much notice, accepting his father’s and brother’s word that I was a guest, and returning to fussing over the presents beneath the tree, which were of much greater interest. The women, Elizabeth and Justine, took fright at first, but were far too polite to be rude to an invited guest of the house, and kindly offered me tea and Christmas cookies.

Polite society, I discovered, had a powerful benefit. So long as your presence had been approved by the ruling patriarch of the household, none would question dare question you. My appearance was nigh inhuman and my story as Victor's roommate implausible if it were to be probed in the slightest, yet out of stubborn adherence to manners, they would ignore even their own instinct to flee. If only I had known of the upper-classes aversion to confrontation or impoliteness, I might have found companions long ago who, for etiquette’s sake, would simply refuse to acknowledge my ugliness.

The only Frankenstein who might have said anything was the middle son, Ernest, who was abroad serving as a mercenary. It was fortunate: the blunt directness of a military youth would ruin the whole charade.

Then there was Henry Clerval.

Soon another guest arrived, whom I gathered was among Victor’s oldest and dearest friends. He was everything that Victor was not—warm, welcoming, confident, and excited about everything new. He took an acute interest in me, much to Victor’s chagrin and my immense delight.

He was curious about my appearance and wanted to know everything, but not in a scientific sense, as Victor might have. Rather, he worried over what tragic history might have resulted in my scarred and shriveled skin, and pitied my consequent treatment by society, which he correctly assumed had been poor. He began right there composing poetry describing me—all without a hint of fear or repulsion toward my physical defects.

Whilst grasping for inspiration, Henry began to quote _Paradise Lost_ _—_

_“Me miserable! Which way shall I fly_  
_Infinite wrath and infinite despair?_  
_Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;”_

—and was delighted when I chimed in with the next verse from memory:

_“And in the lowest deep a lower deep,_  
_Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,_  
_To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.”_

What had been curiosity about me bloomed into a fascination. He wanted to know where I had studied, where I had traveled, how I came to know Victor, but moreover wanted to hear all the other stories I knew! We then became inseparable in conversation, sharing favorite tales—Henry gasping in horror when he learned I had never read Chrétien de Troyes nor Shakespeare.

This connection seemed to frustrate Victor more than anything else, and he continually tried to come between us, to little avail.

My heart was so hardened in my task of hurting Victor that I scarcely noticed, for the first time in my life I was not lonely. The wise discourse of the old man, the tolerance of the ladies (which ever grew into genuine sympathy as they became accustomed to me), and most of all the gentle attentions of Henry Clerval drew these sentiments out of me. He looked at me and smiled. That had never happened before. A smile meant for me—it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

We had dinner. I nearly choked upon realizing the dish they call “ham” is the flesh of a killed pig, but apparently this slaughter is normal for their kind. Such cruelty in their nature. And yet, such kindness, too. After the meal, Henry lamented that he had not brought a present for me.

“Victor, dear friend, surely you would not begrudge me one of the books from your library to gift to our most literary guest?” He sprinted with familiarity up the steps to Victor’s quarters and returned with a leather-bound collection of tales of The Round Table of King Arthur. “Here, this is from both of us!”

He vowed to demonstrate to me all the traditions of the holiday. Later that night, he laughed as he pulled me under the mistletoe for a kiss. Victor nearly fainted.

Yes, this was much better revenge than I had originally planned.


End file.
